


Delirium

by sophie_and_rails



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-17
Updated: 2012-09-17
Packaged: 2017-11-20 19:40:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/588948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sophie_and_rails/pseuds/sophie_and_rails
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>[This was written in September as part of a fanwork exchange on Tumblr.]</p>
    </blockquote>





	Delirium

**Author's Note:**

> [This was written in September as part of a fanwork exchange on Tumblr.]

>   
>  “You mustn’t.”
> 
> “… I don’t understand.”
> 
> “You mustn’t approach them.”
> 
> “Sherlock, what are you raving about?”
> 
> “You mustn’t.”
> 
>         It was too late.
> 
>      The chime of the doorbell resonated dully, sending John rushing to the ground floor. Even after their heated quarrel, the doctor would not – or, more accurately, _could_ not- comprehend the reasoning behind his friend’s obstinate behaviour. He had been talking crazy, spouting vituperations and accusations at _phantoms_. Considering the amount of time the two had spent in the company of each other, John surmised that he could grasp the meaning of even the most bewildering of Sherlock’s rambles; yet he had been proven wrong. Indeed, murders occurred on a daily basis and they had brought many cases to light themselves, but talk of _ghosts_? Particularly, _ghosts disguised as their acquaintances_ , intent on _paying a casual visit_?
> 
>         What a frivolous notion.
> 
>      Sherlock sat perched on the higher steps of the staircase, still in his night robe; out of stubborn spite, he had been reluctant to change into more appropriate attire, much to John’s frustration. “You’re behaving like a child!” He had spat out, infuriated, but Sherlock had so much as shrugged the remark off. _These are nobodies_ , he thought glumly, scrutinising the tapestry in a rather lazy fashion; in mere seconds, he had pinpointed four cracks and numerous spots where the original colour had long faded into a dull grey. His hands were fumbling with the handgun he had snatched while his friend was too preoccupied with the arrangements. _Should trouble arise, I will be ready_. 
> 
>      221B had a festive essence to it; the living room was lit brightly, shafts of yellow pouring out to where Sherlock was hunched. The light disturbed him, he had found out, and thus he preferred the murk of the corridors. Rich odours flooded the kitchen and decorations had been put up here and there, enforcing the homely atmosphere. 
> 
>      It all struck Sherlock as pointless; a grand waste of time and effort. He reckoned the delicacies would go uneaten, the ornaments unappreciated. He had endeavoured to affirm his point, fervently, but fruitlessly. John would have none of his ‘madness’.   _Let him have it his way, then_. A finger caressed the trigger. _I won’t be held accountable for_ -
> 
>      Their ( _foul_ ) voices disrupted his ruminating and instantaneously, he perked up and skittered away. Downstairs, a band of people ( _silhouettes_ ) were marching into the apartment. One by one, they exchanged pleasantries with John, who was overjoyed to notice that all their dear friends ( _fiends_ ) could make it. Their tones were gaily as they appeared to share the doctor’s jubilance, though Sherlock knew better than to be deceived. In his ears, their words resounded unctuously, evoking scorning and disgust within him. 
> 
>      He espied the first silhouette as it made its way up the stairs; petit, rather reminiscent of Molly Hooper. Pitch black it was, with a pair of eyes glimmering on its grotesque impression of a face. For a split second, he feared they had caught a glimpse of his figure, cloistered in the shadows, but the sentiment vanished as the doppelganger stepped into the living room and out of sight. Spontaneously, a sigh of immense relief escaped him, his grip on the weapon easing; his palm and the metallic shell were slick with sweat. 
> 
>      Heavy, languid steps piqued his attention, and with a hint of reluctance, Sherlock crept closer to the railing to spy on the second apparition; a single entity was trudging upstairs, its heads bellowing a horrible guttural laughter. Upon closer inspection, he figured that its stout body consisted of three individual, entwined silhouettes, all familiar enough. Their – _its_ \- rheumy sets of eyes glimpsed around with a perturbing sort of curiosity and he shuffled backwards, furtively.
> 
>       John followed them – _it_ -, beaming with joy. Sherlock stared at him intently as he sauntered by, and his gaze was reciprocated by a mere, doleful glance. _How can you not see_ , he wanted to ask him, _how can you be so blind to the monstrosities standing before you?_
> 
>     _Maybe he is right. Maybe there are no shadows. Maybe you have devised the perfect excuse to refrain from attending this gathering. Maybe-_
> 
> _Oh._
> 
> _They are very real, and they have made a grave mistake._
> 
> \-----------
> 
> _Phase One_
> 
>      Glasses chinked as the silhouettes and John toasted to a healthy year marked by success.  Outside, a snowstorm ( _a bad, bad omen_ ) was brewing, the buildings across the street disappearing behind a veil of precipitation. The guests, however, were not at all fazed, and neither was the army doctor; in the hearth, flames swayed frantically, engulfing the smouldering wood and crisp coals, warming the cosy living room. 
> 
>      Idle chit-chat and jests kept the silhouettes entertained. Sherlock could attest to John managing them marvellously, retaining their attention, thwarting them from _seeking_ ; but what was _he_ doing? As the party drank and conversed, he sat in the darkened corridor, brooding. He dreaded the prospect of engaging them. _No_. The wraiths outnumbered him, and John would not succour. John could not see their true shape. (monsters, monsters, monsters) John did not deem them a peril. ( _fool, fool, fool_ )
> 
>      He had to come up with a way to fend them off. Rid 221B of their odious presence before they _acted_ ( _slew_ ). It was clear how they were biding their time; stalling until the perfect opportunity produced itself. _Then, then they would-_
> 
>      What _would_ they do, really? And how come he knew _so frightfully much_ about those _silhouettes_?
> 
>       _They will slaughter us, me and John. They will show no remorse. They are despicable and vile and horrible. They are worse than my late nemesis. They are worse than all the criminals in the world. They are cunning; able to trick even the most vigilant man. Hah.  Not me. They could not deceive me. Benign as they were, they only fooled John and John never observes._ A confident smirk graced his features. _Morons. Their disguise is erroneous. They assume the shapes of people they know little about. They could never fool me; never ever, ever._
> 
>      Driven by an insatiable need to _prove his point_ , he crawled ever closer to the door and gave a tentative peek. The silhouettes were swigging ( _champagne; the most festive of alcoholic beverages, clearly_ ) their drinks, chortling at anecdotes and _growing restive_. Their movements indicated fraying patience; the nervous twitches, the restless pacing. 
> 
>      He reached for the gun.
> 
>     _Would you not like to sit by the fire? Warm those frozen extremities of yours? Warm your body and put your soul to rest? Wouldn’t you like that?_
> 
>      A sibilant whisper; his eyes widen in terror as the voice beckons him. 
> 
>     _Would you not like to join us? We are having such a splendid time! A blast, indeed! Your friend, especially, has been a treat. Come sit by the fire, Sherlock._
> 
> _No. Spare me your courtesies. I know all too well where your intents lay._
> 
> _Now, now, do you really?_
> 
>      Sherlock strode forward. 
> 
>      The lounge looked awfully bleak; grey walls decorated with patterns of tattered tapestry towered well above his height and all the furniture was ruined; a scorched couch, a smashed table, a toppled bookcase. At first glance, only the two armchairs seemed intact, placed close to the fireplace. He struggled to halt; halt, turn around and spring for the door. He loathed the silhouettes rather vehemently, and their control over his motions even more so.
> 
>       _We presumed you would require having a word with your friend._
> 
>      John.
> 
>         _He grew rather weary._
> 
>      Sherlock could see the cadaver propped neatly on the armchair; John’s fingers clasped a half-empty glass and an affectionate smile was etched on his lips. The detective stifled a screech. His friend’s face was marred by two gaping holes –empty eye sockets; the fiends had snatched his eyes for their own, maybe to _make good use of them in the future_. Blood was drying on his cheeks and temples.
> 
>       _We ensured that he rests._
> 
> _Soundly._
> 
>      A wound on his torso was gushing crimson, yet through the tissue and gore, the fabric of the armchair was visible. They had stabbed him; all the way through his flesh and tore out his heart. ( _another part to be put to good use, don’t you agree, don’t you agree_ ) Sherlock’s face was contorted into a scowl of disbelief and utter horror. 
> 
>     _You-_
> 
> \-----------
> 
> _Phase Two_
> 
>      “You need to wake up. Sherlock, _please_.”
> 
>      John’s voice, laced with exasperation. Lazily, Sherlock opened his eyes, his nightmare still fresh in his recollections. He felt around with his fingertips, sensing the leathery fabric of his armchair. The fact unsettled him little, for John’s voice was all the reassuring he needed.  It had been a terrible, mortifying nightmare – _and nothing more_. 
> 
>      “You are embarrassing yourself in front of our guests.”
> 
>      “Guests” he mused, glimpsing at the room. A warm fire blazed in the hearth and John was there, frowning. “What are you talking about, John?”
> 
>      The crease of his brow deepened. “Don’t…” He trailed off, disheartened.
> 
>      Sherlock cavorted off the chair, disregarding John’s mention of ‘ _guests_ ’. He was fairly certain that he was treading through the waking world, with no ‘ _guests_ ’ to threaten and tantalise him.  Simply John and he, free to live their lives without the looming danger of ‘ _guests_ ’. ( _guests, guests, silhouettes_ ) 
> 
>     _Do it_.
> 
>      He gagged as a pair of hands seized his neck and weighed him down; John’s hands. Those roughened, padded fingers were unmistakeable; for it had been those hands to ruffle his hair and cradle him reassuringly, and to prove that he had a comrade willing to sacrifice everything. Remembrance flooded his mind as those very hands pressed tighter, shutting his windpipe. John, his most loyal friend and companion was _throttling_ him.
> 
>      “It’s _your_ fault, Sherlock!” The shorter man was screaming. “It’s your fault _they_ barged in here and _killed_ me!”
> 
>      ( _be careful with your guests, be very, very careful_ )
> 
>      He could see them now. The silhouettes stood tall and menacing, their ( _stolen_ ) eyes alight with demented delight. Each inhale became onerous and every succeeding exhale a snort through flaring nostrils, and John would not relent. He kept reiterating the same accusations in that quivering pained voice. Sherlock wished to unveil the truth in its entirety; unmask the uninvited guests; reconcile with John. A trembling hand reached for his friend’s torso and caressed the ( _soaked_ ) fabric of his shirt, finding the injury. 
> 
>      “ _Your fault, your fault, YOUR FAULT!_ ”
> 
>       _I’m sorry_ ; he mouthed, and lost his grasp upon consciousness.
> 
> \-----------
> 
>      He stirred.
> 
>      Reality embraced him, starker and colder than his hallucination. The effects of the drug were wearing off, he reckoned, and for that he was only partially grateful. He winced at the migraine, burying his haggard face in his hands. 
> 
>      The silhouettes were gone and John was still dead.
> 
>   
>    
> 


End file.
